


Ink Smudge

by FievreAlgide



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 04:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21314335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FievreAlgide/pseuds/FievreAlgide
Summary: "The sound of the quill scratching the papers was stopping Saint-Just from falling asleep." One quiet afternoon in the life of revolutionary quill-pushers. (Old fic repost.)
Relationships: Maximilien Robespierre/Louis Antoine de Saint-Just
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	Ink Smudge

**Author's Note:**

> First Posted on LiveJournal on January 25, 2009.

The sound of the quill scratching the papers was stopping Saint-Just from falling asleep. It was hypnotising; always this same dance. Always this duo with the shadows produced by the candles. He hadn’t slept much on the previous night. It was now the late afternoon. Usually, at this time of the day, it was still light outside, but the sky was dark, filled with heavy clouds. But they refused to pour their rain. They only remained above them, above the city, massively threatening the quiet, but anxious, walkers in the streets. 

Saint-Just posed his quill. There was an ink smudge on his left cuff. He lifted his left hand, looking closer and frowning at the smudge. He examined his fingers, making them move slightly, one after the other, following the same dance imposed by the candlelight, flickering softly, but his fingers were not dirty.

His thoughts – which were about more than merely his cuff – were suddenly troubled when he heard footsteps behind him. Robespierre was in the parlour, now reaching for his room.

He didn’t turn to look at him, but he liked to imagine that he had probably taken a pause an instant, in the door frame of his room, to observe him. After all, his footsteps did pause. Briefly. To observe him.

But the footsteps continued again, stopping just behind Saint-Just’s chair, this time. There was no word exchanged when the man laid down his hands on the younger’s shoulders, massaging softly. Saint-Just smiled, though Robespierre could not see, and he let the fingers moving softly, in small circles.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, and Saint-Just smiled wider, possibly flushing.

The younger man laid back into the chair, posing the back of his head against the other man’s stomach. He allowed the fingers to comb the light brown curls reaching, so lightly, his shoulders. One hand continued caressing the hair, softly, while the other moved down the left shoulder, then up to the young man’s neck, lining from the tip of his fingers the folds in Saint-Just’s cravat. Saint-Just sighed, and shut his eyes, and gripped this hand, the right hand, still playing with the knot of his cravat. He brought the palm to his lips, so warm next to the cool hand. He kissed it once, twice, again, more. His caressing lips could feel the lines inside of the palm. It was soft, and suddenly, with the contact, the hand seemed to become warmer.

And Robespierre’s hand slid out of his touch, slowly, as Saint-Just was still trailing kisses along the fingers.

Saint-Just looked up, bending his head back, and he smiled to his friend. Robespierre smiled as well, slightly – as usual.

“I love you.”

And the hand Saint-Just was kissing was now smoothing over his right cheek. He shut his eyes, entranced with the slow caresses. So slow, and so slight, as always. And he wished he would fall asleep.

However, Robespierre stopped, and spoke.

“There’s an ink smudge on your cuff.”


End file.
